


those clinging vines that had me bound, well i don't need them

by notlucy



Series: Give a Little, Take a Little [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM Scene, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Bucky continues to wear his heart on his sleeve, But the fun kind, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Flogging, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, POV Bucky Barnes, Pinching, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Safeword Use, Sex Work, Shibari, Sort Of, Spanking, Sub Bucky Barnes, Threats of Violence, blink and you'll miss them Steve Rogers feelings, discussion of heavier kinks, miscellaneous homemade kinky toys, what can Steve say he's an improviser, yellow if you need to know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 11:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Friday night finds Bucky fit to be tied. Steve's happy to help.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Give a Little, Take a Little [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1263104
Comments: 85
Kudos: 427





	those clinging vines that had me bound, well i don't need them

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the [ Give a Little, Take a Little series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1263104). You don't need to have read those to read this, but it might help set the scene. Also, Steve and Bucky discuss some kinks that are not everyone's cup of tea. I didn't tag them, because it's not fair to tease folks who do want that particular flavor in their fetish literature with tags if they're not actually in the story. If you need a rundown, I'll put it in the end notes.

“Warm enough?” Steve asks with a pat to Bucky’s bare backside.

It’s not a legitimate question: of the two answers, one will get him spanked again, and the other will… also get him spanked again. “Trick question,” he says, looking over his shoulder.

“How so?”

“Either answer’s bad for me.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. If I say no, I’m not warmed up, you’ll keep going. But if I say yes, that’s saying I know better than you about how much is too much.”

Steve’s mouth curls up at the corners, reminding Bucky of a lion cornering prey. It’s disconcerting. “Intelligent observation. For the record.” He lifts his hand. “It wasn’t a trick.”

“Oh, but…” Bucky protests, but it’s too late, and Steve goes back to work, continuing his thorough, painful warmup, having dispensed with the pleasantries of posture and planks. Bucky groans, dropping his head and losing himself in the remainder's rhythm until, at last, Steve stops, rubbing his reddened skin.

“Let’s try it again. Warm enough?”

“Yes,” he says, not stupid enough to fall for the same trick twice (a minor miracle).

“I second the motion. Stand up.”

Bucky stands. Rubs his ass as Steve gets to his feet and crosses to his black bag of mystery, where the evening’s entertainment awaits.

“Think fast,” Steve says, pulling out something tan and twisted, which he tosses to Bucky, who manages to catch it two-handed, because he’s an indoor kid.

Oh, shit. It’s rope.

“Um…” he starts, as Steve tosses a second, then a third, then a fourth hank in his direction. “Hey!”

“Quick hands, genius. Don’t tell me you didn’t suspect,” he says, zipping the bag and striding toward Bucky with two more wound-tight bundles of rope in his hands. “I saw you eyeing the ceiling.”

Well, who wouldn’t? They’re in a new location tonight—bare, save for the usual chair, and five industrial-sized eye-bolts mounted to the heavy wooden beam running the length of the room. One bolt attaches to a chain-pulley-cuff thingamajig he doesn’t have a term for, ending in a spreader bar, which he recognizes from ever so much pornography, thanks. The other bolts are bare, though they could be rigged to hold any number of… things.

So, no, Steve having ropes isn’t a _total_ surprise.

“I… may have had an inkling, but I figured you’d be using the uh, spreader bar, if anything.”

“I like rope better, plus, you’re ready for it.”

Well, shit, now Bucky’s grinning. “Oh. Cool.”

“So how about it, genius? Shall we run the ropes course?”

“Yes, please.”

“Sit,” he says. Bucky does, and Steve joins him, both of them cross-legged, one of them naked, though he’s long since gotten over being self-conscious about that. In fact, nudity has become normal enough he hardly notices it, most of the time. (Not that he’s going to run around naked in Central Park or anything so bold, but in the dungeon he’s as happy out of his clothes as in them.) “You want to start by unwinding the hank and shaking it out, make sure there aren’t any kinks.”

Simple enough, so Bucky works the end of his first rope out from where it’s tucked and shakes out the line. The rope is smooth, despite the thousands of tiny fibers comprising the length, and soft, too—supple, as if it’s coated in wax—slippery between his fingers, the sensation of running it through his hands almost as pleasurable as the anticipation of what Steve might do with it.

“This is jute,” Steve explains. “Which is my favorite type of rope, though not the only type. There’s hemp, synthetic, cotton… the list goes on. What someone uses is a preference thing, and also a depends-what-you’re-doing-with-it thing.”

“Oh.” Bucky nods, absorbing the information like the happy little sponge he is. “Why do you prefer jute?”

“It’s got a good bite, and the knots stay stable, which is important. Plus, once you break it in, it’s easy to work with.”

“Break it in?”

“Mmm hmm.” He runs the rope through his fists, smoothing and working out the places where the tie had twisted it. Bucky mimics his actions, feeling the slight kinks straighten as he goes. “This stuff can be pricey. Good boy, just like that.”

(Bucky grins, and yeah, he doesn’t notice being naked as _much_ these days, but it’s hard not to acknowledge the physical response to that dropped morsel of praise.)

“So,” Steve continues. “I buy it untreated, because that’s cheaper. Plus, I prefer to break it in myself, because I can control the process from start to finish.”

“ _You,_ controlling?” Bucky says with a grin. “I can’t imagine.”

Steve smirks, reaching over to pinch the inside of his thigh hard enough to make him yelp. “Can I continue, or do you want to keep being an asshole?”

“Yup!” Bucky squeaks, thigh throbbing as Steve bears down.

“You _do_ want to keep being an asshole?”

“No! I meant yup, continue!”

“Thank you.” He drops his hold, sitting back, while Bucky rubs the reddening spot. “Right, breaking it in. To start, I throw it in boiling water, pull it out and dry it under tension.”

“Like you give it a hard test and don’t let it study?”

“You are endlessly hilarious, Bucky. They should pay you to write dad jokes on sitcoms.”

“Thank you, I take that as a compliment.”

“I bet you do. As I was saying, once it’s dry, the best way I can describe it is that I polish it? Which means I wrap it around something smooth—the support beam in my apartment, most often—and start sawing back and forth to pop the loose fibers.”

Bucky ignores that Steve just admitted he lives in an apartment, rather than hanging upside down from the ceiling in the dungeon. That’s a follow-up for another day. “Doesn’t that just make it rougher?”

“At first. But I get to play with fire and singe the ends off. It blunts the fibers, softens the rope, after which I treat it with oil and beeswax.”

That explains the waxy sensation. “And that gets it even softer?”

“It does. Plus, strengthening it, which is important when you’re talking about suspensions.”

“Ah.” Bucky can imagine. Vividly.

“So yeah, that’s the process. For jute, anyway.”

“Which is your favorite rope to work with.”

“Which is my favorite rope to work with.”

Bucky grins, reaching the literal end of his rope, then going back the other way, mirroring Steve. “You’re a total dork about it, huh?”

Steve snorts, but doesn’t appear to take offense or threaten another thigh pinch. “I like to treat my things.”

“Do you have to buy your own rope?”

“Who else would I get it from? The rope fairy?”

“Uh…” he gestures at the four walls surrounding them. “Business expense? Petty cash?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “There’s house rope we can use, but it’s nylon, and I hate working with that shit. As for a business expense, I can’t write my toys off on my taxes,” he says with a grin. “Anyway, I appreciate paying for peace of mind—if I can’t be sure of the quality, then I can’t have fun. And if I’m not having fun…”

“Nobody’s having fun.”

“Correct-a-mundo. Hey, speaking of fun, do you want to see what we’re playing with tonight?” He puts down his rope and leans back, stretching for the bag. Bucky swallows, eyes fixed on the long line of his torso as his t-shirt pulls up, revealing a couple inches of stomach—pale, yes, but muscled, with a mole to the left of his navel that draws Bucky’s eye; makes him want to throw his own rope to the side, crawl across the floor, and lick a stripe over that taut skin. Only he doesn’t get the chance, because Steve hooks his thumb around the handle of the bag and tugs it toward himself. “Buck?”

“Uh. Sorry. Yeah, I do,” he says, clearing his throat.

Steve gives him a funny look. “Are you sure?”

Damned libido. Bucky simpers like Oliver Twist on steroids, holding his hands in front of himself and pleading, “oh golly gosh, Steve. Please show me how you’re going to torture me tonight!”

“Well, if you insist,” he grins, relaxing as he ever-so-slowly unzips the bag and roots around inside. The first toys to emerge are a set of multi-tailed leather floggers, followed by something Bucky doesn’t recognize, which Steve holds aloft. It looks like a timpani mallet, if said mallet had been wrapped in black gaffer’s tape, handle and all, and he assumes it’s made for impact.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Something that hurts,” Steve chirps. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“Yippee?”

“I might not use it—it’ll depend on how things go. On that note, do you have to piss?”

The question comes out of left field, making Bucky laugh. “Uh, no?” It’s funny now that he thinks about it: he’s been here a few times, but he’s never needed a bio break. And sure, he tries to go before he arrives, but their scenes get him so keyed up and overstimulated that his brain can’t process anything beyond that immediate moment, bodily functions falling by the wayside. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I hate cutting up expensive rope. The last thing I want is to tie you up and be met with your sudden urgent need.”

“I think I could give you a warning…”

“You’d be shocked what can happen when a knot presses on your bladder,” he says, like a man who has experience in the matter.

“Oh.” The tips of his ears are hot, and he shrugs. “I guess I meant that I’d rather have an accident than ruin your ropes.”

“Generous of you, Buck, thanks.”

“Well, I just mean that if I did, it wouldn’t be the first time you’d ever uh… dealt with that? In your line of work?”

Steve glances up, brow raised and lips quirking. “No, it wouldn’t. But this room isn’t set up as a wet room tonight.”

“What’s a…” he trails off. “Right. Got it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you uh… do that, right?”

The brow inches higher, and Steve shrugs. “Sometimes.” He pauses. “As I recall, you had watersports as a ‘maybe’ on your survey.”

He had, hadn’t he? Because he’d filled out the survey honestly, in the interest of exploration and trying new things. Kinky and unfamiliar new things, in some cases. “Well. Just because. Uh. I mean. At the time I thought that if I were going to be in a situation where a uh… not-jizz bodily fluid was, ah. Involved. That would be the one I could handle.”

“Yes, well, only a fleeting few are into scat or rainbow play, but it might surprise you how many folks don’t mind a golden shower.”

“Oh. It’s…” Fuck. Now it’s in his head. But he can’t say it. Won’t say it. Except Steve notices his reticence and takes advantage, scooting over to squeeze the back of his neck.

“It’s what, Buck?”

“It’s dumb.”

“Nothing’s dumb.”

Bucky shivers, holding eye contact as the image of Steve dominating him in that fashion continues to take shape in his brain. Sure, it would be humiliating and gross, but also, he can see the appeal in degradation.

Christ, but kink is a slippery slope.

“Not. Um.” He clears his throat. “I’m not sure if I’m interested in that um, thing, or if it’s more the uh, concept that it represents?”

Steve laughs, licking a wet stripe up his throat, culminating in a bite to his earlobe. “Take a beat, think it over and let me know what you decide. But…” His hand slides into Bucky’s hair, grabbing tight and forcing his head back. “You gotta promise me that when you get a wild hare to try something new, you tell me. No matter what. Understand?”

“I… ugh.”

That’s not good enough, and Steve slaps his cheek with his free hand, the gentle hit taking Bucky both by surprise and out of his head. “Nothing you want is wrong, okay? Admitting it to me doesn’t mean it has to happen. If I’m not into what you’re asking for, I don’t have a problem telling you so. No harm, no foul, alright?”

Bucky squirms, whining, because it turns out he enjoys getting slapped in the face just as much as he enjoys getting slapped on the ass. “I just… I don’t know what I want, but I do know I’m not like… grossed out by the concept of you, uh. Doing that. To me.”

“Aha.” Steve releases his vice grip on Bucky’s hair and slides over to pick up his rope. “Thank you.”

“It’s just…” he sighs, doing the same with his own line of jute. “I get that you won’t judge me, in theory. But saying shit like that out loud still sucks.”

“Another muscle to work,” Steve surmises. “What’s the point of being here if you can’t be honest about what you want?”

“I guess.”

Steve tilts his head to the side, studying him for a second before nodding. “Alright, then, genius. New homework.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I want you to write out five of the weirdest fantasies you’ve ever had. Like, you want a unicorn fucking you with its horn while a troll sticks its tongue in your ear and a merman gargles your balls. I don’t care. Whatever they are, write them down.”

“That’s… Steve…”

“What?”

“I can’t do that.”

“'You can’t, like it’s a limit? Or, you can’t, like you don’t want to because it’s hard?”

Bucky sighs. “Because it’s hard.”

“Well, that’s simple enough to fix: I’m cancelling the assignment.”

This feels like a trick, so he keeps optimism at arm’s length. “You are?”

“I am. You don’t have to write five, you have to write ten, as detailed and explicit as possible, please.”

“Steve!”

“How about fifteen? I don’t care, I like to read.”

“Ten… yeah, ten’s fine.”

Steve smiles, tossing his straightened rope to one side, then reaching for another. “Wanna hear one of mine?”

Damn if the man isn’t good at coercion. “… yes.”

“I’ve got a huge fucking medical kink. Tongue depressors, turn your head and cough, enemas, rectal thermometers, latex gloves, the whole deal. Giant turn-on.”

“Really?” Bucky says, the notion of Steve in scrubs holding instant appeal.

“I was sick as a kid,” he shrugs. “So that stuff got imprinted on me at an impressionable age. But I recognize that it’s a fetish, and it doesn’t make seeing an actual doctor weird for me. It’s not hurting anybody, and I like it.”

Intrigued, Bucky leans forward. “What uh, what do you think makes you so into it?”

“Near as I can figure, I enjoy having control in a situation where I felt helpless when I was small. But that’s over-analyzing it—mostly I have fun sticking someone’s feet in stirrups and watching them squirm.”

Bucky’s squirming at the mere notion. “Wow.”

“Which is to say, I’m not judging anybody for anything they’re into that doesn’t cause actual harm. I’d be in the wrong line of work if I did—we all have kinks we’re into that other people might look at and go… well hey, buddy, it’s messed up that you need to fuck that unicorn.”

“I thought the unicorn was fucking me.”

“The point stands.”

“True.” He hesitates, then smiles. “Um… thanks. For pushing me to get my weird out. ”

Steve shrugs, giving him a cheesy wink. “Takes one to know one, pal. Should we get started?”

* * *

Ere and forsooth, Bucky beginneth his lesson in ropesmanship.

Ropespersonship?

Ropescraft?

Whatever the terminology, he likes it.

Steve keeps it low-key to start, ever the teacher, more now than he was when they were roleplaying. He explains the terminology (Bucky now knows what a bight is) and some rules of engagement, before moving onto simple ties. They begin with a single-column, then a double, both of which he demonstrates on Bucky a few times before holding out his own wrists with a smile. “Your turn.”

Bucky lights up with a smile, eager for an opportunity to turn the tables, though he soon discovers that it’s not as easy as Steve made it look. He has to keep the rope flat and stop it twisting while also making sure it isn’t too loose or too tight. Still, after a few failed attempts, he manages a passable double column that gets Steve’s nod of approval, followed by a kiss to the forehead which has the no-doubt intended effect of turning his insides to goo.

“Excellent,” Steve praises. “Let’s move on to a futomomo.”

Said futomomo involves binding Bucky’s calf to his thigh in a tie that’s likely Japanese. Bucky’s familiar with shibari bondage—it’s one of those kinks that’s been skirting the mainstream for years—finding it both intimidating and intriguing, with its intricacies and complicated patterns of knots that turn the body into a canvas. It can be beautiful, eroticism and artistic skill entwined in the literal sense. Steve being adept in it fits his personality, because it takes no small amount of skill to gain proficiency, and mastery no doubt requires copious amounts of fussiness and particularity.

“There,” Steve says, just about giggling as he lets Bucky go, left leg folded double. “Try to get around the room—far wall, then back to me.”

Bucky hops on his right foot, heading for the wall while leaving his dignity behind. It’s not sexy, and he’s well aware of what he must look like, dick flapping in the proverbial breeze. But he can see how it _could_ be sexy; how the loss of control and reliance on one’s partner could be a real fucking head trip, under the right circumstances, knots and ties strategically centered, pressing against tender flesh, torturous and teasing. 

“How you doing?” Steve asks as Bucky hops back across the room to face him.

“Good,” he says, breathless, sweat running down his spine. “If I don’t think about how stupid I look.”

“You don’t look stupid.”

“You’re laughing.”

“Stupid and hilarious aren’t synonyms, Bucky. Stay balanced, alright? I want to try an arm binder.”

The arm binder is the toughest tie yet, with Bucky’s limbs caught behind his back in a manner that restricts any movement save the wiggling of his fingers. That, combined with the futomomo, has him swaying on his foot, forced to rely on Steve for balance. With practice, he could hop without falling on his ass, but for right now, he’s immobilized.

“I love this one,” Steve murmurs, hooking an arm around Bucky’s waist, leaning him back at an angle he couldn’t maintain without help. “You. Defenseless.”

A shiver starts near Bucky’s pulled-back shoulders, traveling through his torso and ending up at his groin, where his cock is also helpless in not responding to the stimulation. “Uh-huh…” he manages.

“You ready to try something tougher?” Steve’s fingers walk their way into the coarse hairs just above his cock, where they come to rest, unmoving yet oh-so-close to being a comfort.

“Yes. Anything,” he says without pause.

“Anything?” Steve gives those short hairs a tug.

Bucky swallows. “Anything. Within my limits. Because I have safe words. And I am an active participant in uh, my misery?”

“Attaboy.” With that, he squats low, taking Bucky’s weight, adept in his ability to lower them both to the floor. “Let me get you untied. Then, you’re going to at least try to piss.”

“But I don’t—”

“Like I said, sometimes positions put pressure on unexpected places and I hate wasting expensive rope.”

“Ah,” he says, waiting until Steve has him unbound before hopping to his feet. “Do I have to go naked?”

“Much as I’d enjoy that, it’s not everyone’s kink. You can wear your jeans.”

(Mostly) relieved, Bucky retrieves his pants from the box by the door, doing his best to wrangle his protesting cock into place without catching himself in the zipper. “So uh, where’s the bathroom?”

“First door on the left, lobby-side. You can’t miss it, there’s a guy in a gimp suit inside, working as a urinal.”

Bucky turns, blinking. “No, there isn’t.”

“Try it and find out.”

Bucky tries it. Walks down the hall and opens the bathroom door to discover a small, single-occupancy room, walls decorated with black and white photographs of human bodies bound with rope and contorted into complex positions. He spends a long time staring at one in particular of a man suspended in mid-air, body immobilized by his bonds, expression calm and serene, as if there was no place else he’d rather be than in that room, under the careful hands of whomever had put him up there.

The photograph stays on his mind as he finishes his business and washes his hands, then returns to the playroom. “You’re full of shit,” he informs Steve, shutting the door behind himself.

“I guess Stuart’s off tonight,” Steve says, shit-eating grin in place. “Can you flip that switch?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, nudging the switch by the door. “That flips the occupied light, right?” He notices more and more each time he comes, like how only some doors have illuminated red lights over them on any given evening, though they all have bulbs.

“Bingo. The switch is manual operation, but it turns off automatically when the door’s opened.”

“Oh. And that’s making sure we have privacy?”

“Yup. It’s a safety measure, too.”

“Because the doors don’t lock?”

“Correct. The only locking doors go to the break room and the street.”

“You guys have a break room?”

Steve doesn’t respond, just points at Bucky’s bottom half. “Pants off, then lie face down on the ground in front of me. Time to get you wrangled, li’l dawg-y.”

The deplorable southern accent is two parts Dukes of Hazzard and one part Minnie Pearl, and _that’s_ being charitable. Bucky snorts, unbuttoning his jeans. “What was that, Tex?”

“Gotta round me up some prime beef,” he manages, looking proud of himself and barely suppressing his laughter.

“Oh, Jesus,” Bucky mutters, folding his pants. “If you’re planning to hog tie me, isn’t that for cows, not pigs?”

“You can hog tie lots of stuff, actually. Cows. Pigs. Bucks.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, lowering himself onto his belly. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“I’m hilarious,” he corrects. “Put your arms behind your back and cross your wrists.”

Compliant as ever, he does. Steve stops laughing long enough to focus on trussing him up like a turkey. Bucky assumes that’s what he’s doing, anyway; he’s never trussed a turkey in his life, nor can he see what Steve’s doing back there. But boy, can he feel it—feels Steve wrapping rope around his arms in a manner that’s like the earlier arm binder, followed by the same treatment to his legs. By the time Steve’s through, Bucky has perhaps an inch of give in both sets of limbs, and the rope that seemed so soft earlier doesn’t feel that way anymore.

“Wriggle around,” Steve says. “I want to check that those knots are going to hold, and that you won’t freak out over being so restricted.”

“Why would I freak out?”

“Some people don’t like not being able to move their legs independently; they make shitty snowboarders.”

“Oh.” Bucky wriggles and rolls, fights against the ropes only to discover that it’s futile: he’s well and truly stuck.

“Good,” Steve says, placing a hand on his bound arms. “Now’s the fun part.”

“Oh, boy,” Bucky mutters as Steve gets started. The fun part means binding his arms to his legs, completing the hog tie, which involves a third rope and an indeterminate amount of time spent by Steve fussing with the ties. Eventually, though, he tells Bucky to take a deep breath, which he does, and whoops, hey, his legs are being forced to bend at the knees, shoulders pulled back at a not-so-natural angle, redistributing his weight onto his stomach and hips. It takes a second for him to adapt, but then it’s not that bad.

“How’s that?” Steve asks, and when Bucky looks back, he sees that he’s holding the rope taut in both fists.

“It’s good,” he says.

“Be more descriptive. Does it hurt, does it pinch, are you green, yellow, red?”

“Green. It doesn’t…” He breathes in, testing himself. “Doesn’t hurt like this.”

“Hmm.” Steve widens his stance and pulls, forcing Bucky further back into the bend. “How about now?”

He draws in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “That… mmm, green, still, but… ow?”

“Good enough to start.” A tie-off takes place, and the result is that Bucky is stuck in the taut-shoulder position as Steve steps away with a low whistle of approval. “Shit, you look good like that.”

“I’ll take…” he sucks in another shallow breath, ribcage protesting, because figuring out respiration and conversation in syncopation is harder than he’d imagined. “Your word. For it.”

“I can do better than that, smartass. You want me to take your picture?”

“Yes,” he manages.

“I’ll go get your phone. You work on that breathing, alright? In and out, nice and slow; control it, don’t let it control you.”

Easier said than done, he wants to say, though all he manages is a grunted “yeah.” His brain wants to head to the fight-or-flight adrenaline-fueled place that has nothing to do with genuine panic but everything to do with an evolutionary response to danger: his heart is thumping, his face is hot, and he’s noticing everything now, senses heightened by discomfort. Turns out, holding a position while knots and ropes dig into bare skin is an invitation for one’s joints to kick up a cacophony of complaints.

But Steve had told him to breathe. And Steve tends not to steer him wrong. So, he breathes. In and out, time and again, until the discordant song settles into a minor key melody.

“There’s my good boy,” Steve soothes, crouching to place a hand high between his shoulder blades, nearly to his neck, rubbing his trembling muscles as Bucky steels himself with the certitude that he is, indeed, Steve’s good boy. “You remember what I said earlier, about keeping up conversation?”

Oh, yes, the conversation—the Rope Rules that Steve had iterated before he’d started the first single column tie, including the difference between good-numb and bad-numb, good-tingles and bad-tingles, how nerve damage was an actual possibility, which Steve had seen happen, meaning that Bucky needs to tell him if something feels funky. (Funny how the concept of risk aware consensual kink makes a lot more sense when given those considerations.) So, he licks his lips and articulates. “It’s okay. Harder to breathe than I thought. But I’m. Trying.”

“If you panic, you’ll tell me?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. I’m going to take a couple pictures, then we can play. Let’s see if I can’t make you focus on something worse than the ropes.”

“Sure,” he agrees, dropping his head to the ground, which puts more strain on his neck, but Christ, he can’t hold it up forever.

Steve allows it long enough to snap a couple shots, but no sooner has he finished than he’s crouched back down, tugging Bucky’s head up by the hair. “Look at me. Posture, remember?

“Sorry,” he says. “Hard to. Keep it…”

“I know. When you’re more experienced, I’ll tie that pretty hair of yours up, too, so you don’t have any choice but to keep your head held high.” Using his free hand, he cups Bucky’s jaw, running his thumb across parted lips. “Open.”

Bucky opens. Steve slips his thumb in, depressing his tongue and pinning it in place. He tastes like salt and sweat and soap, thumb as thick and strong as the rest of him, and Bucky’s focus narrows to a pinprick, a contented sigh escaping as he does what comes naturally, closing his lips and sucking.

Steve grins. A slow, deliberate thing that spreads across his face while his fingers dig into the soft skin of Bucky’s jaw. “Somebody’s had practice.”

In a different world, that would be embarrassing, but he gets the sense Steve sees it as a point of pride. So he shrugs and smiles around the invading finger.

“See, this is why I love a hog tie,” Steve says, the hand in Bucky’s hair tightening enough to hurt. “If you were on a bed, you’d be at just the right height to get your mouth fucked.”

Jesus Christ. Sure, Steve is speaking in the abstract, but the mental image of his cock in Bucky’s mouth while he’s this helpless is enough to send an involuntary shudder through him as he garbles out, “plllleee…”

Steve’s smile widens, and he presses down until Bucky’s eyes roll back, suppressing a gag. It’s wonderful, and he’s desperate for more, which of course means that’s the moment his calf decides oh, hey, tired of this, and spasms with a motherfucker of a Charlie horse. Bucky screeches out an immediate, “yuhhluh!” which doesn’t sound like yellow, but Steve understands anyway, pulling away and reaching for the shears he’s laid out on the floor near the extra rope. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Cramp!” he yelps.

“Where?”

“Calf!”

Steve doesn’t pick up the shears. Instead, he scoots down so he can dig his fingers into the meat of Bucky’s cramping calf. It’s not a gentle massage, and the cure is almost as bad as the ailment, but the agony of the cramp subsides under the assault, and Bucky slumps with relief (or, well, he slumps as much as the ropes will let him).

“Fuck,” he mutters after a moment, the word arriving on a whimper of pain.

“Better or worse?” Steve prompts. “Still yellow?”

“Better. Green again. It’s… yeah.”

“Thank you for telling me about it.”

“Uh, welcome. Thanks for… fixing it?”

“Anytime.”

Steve continues to rub, the pressure growing lighter until his fingers are only just grazing Bucky’s skin. “You’re positively green?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Should we take a beat?”

“No. Keep going,” he says, because he will not let one stupid cramp ruin what’s proving to be a genuine pleasure of an evening.

“Good boy,” he says like he’s thinking about something dastardly, which he probably (definitely) is. “We ought to tenderize those muscles, so this doesn’t happen again.”

“Um, tenderize?” he squeaks.

Steve removes his hand; seconds later, he holds the not-quite-timpani mallet in front of Bucky’s face. “You were curious about this, right?”

“Uh. I was.”

“Wanna guess what it does?”

Bucky squints. “Something… that will suck?”

“Aw, genius, look at you,” Steve says, bopping his nose gently with the mallet. “You’re right. This is going to suck mightily for you. For me, on the other hand, it’s going to be a scream.”

“Yay?”

“Very much so. This little thing is called… well, it doesn’t have an official name. I call it a foam mallet, which is what the person who showed me how to make it called it.” Because of course, Steve had made it himself; Bucky imagines that he’d make his own everything, if he could just source the materials. “The foam mallet targets muscles. Or, well, _I_ target them, and the mallet makes my point for me. It’s a little bit like…ah, have you ever used a tennis ball on a sore muscle? Like putting it between you and a wall or the floor and rolling on it?”

“Um. I’ve used a foam roller?” And he knows from experience in physical therapy for an IT band injury that they can hurt like a motherfucker.

“Yeah, it’s probably like that. Only instead of being across the whole muscle, I can be more… targeted. Here, I’ll show you.” He moves back to Bucky’s no-longer twitching calf, beginning a rhythmic tapping of the mallet on the outside of the muscle. The sensation is pleasant at first—intense, but not uncomfortable. More like a weird, rhythmic massage than anything torturous. (Or, actually, it’s what Bucky imagines a manual version of the Thera-gun would be, the device familiar to him through Instagram ads that have been showing up since he bought the posture doohickey.)

But then! To the surprise of fucking no-one! There is pain! A lot of pain! Because with Steve, all roads end in agony. The taps of the mallet grow harder, until they are unbearable, as if Steve has reached inside his skin and is punching the muscle as hard as he can. Bucky howls, trying to roll away, his poor, confused calf sending distress signals to his brain.

“Oh, hey, don’t leave,” Steve says, using his unoccupied hand to grab the rope binding Bucky’s appendages together, forcing him to stay put. “This thing is perfect for using on single muscles, or muscle groups, depending on the size of the mallet. I made a whole set—the big ones are great for shoulders and backs, but the little ones…” He trails off, and Bucky can hear the smirk on his face. “The little ones can go all sorts of terrible places.”

“Ungh,” he manages, stomach dropping.

“Beats a cramp, doesn’t it?”

“Barely.”

Steve snorts, and Bucky gets no further warning before he moves the mallet and starts tap-tap-tapping against the arch of his exposed foot instead. Soft to start, but oh, it’s going to get bad soon. Instinct tells him to pull his feet away, only, uh, said feet are tied to his arms so that little maneuver only puts pressure and pain on his already-sore shoulders. “Fuck!”

“I see you’ve discovered the bitch of bondage,” Steve says, delighted. “Hold still, or I’ll make this worse.”

Ever the sunny sadist, Steve’s whistling to himself as he drums mercilessly on Bucky’s poor foot, until his toes are curling in time with the blows and all he can focus on is the misery of it. It’s not the most painful experience he’s had with Steve, but it’s novel—like plucking a raw nerve—the pain in his foot radiating through his body as he realizes how connected everything is. How tension in one place affects another, and how Steve has control over every bit of those bits while Bucky is simply stuck there, trussed up and vulnerable.

Finally, Steve relents, giving his still-twitching big toe a wiggle, like some fucked up version of This Little Piggy. “Did you like that?”

“No!”

“A real no, or a masochist’s no?”

That question gets him every time. “Uh. Masochist’s.”

“There’s a shock. You want to see your pictures?”

That perks him up, and he nods, waiting for Steve to hold the phone in front of his face, where once again, his first response is to doubt that he’s seeing himself. Because the person in the photo looks… impressive. Not like the shibari bathroom art, but there’s strength in the lines of the body trussed up on the floor that he hadn’t expected to see in himself—his legs are way further up than he’d imagined, and his shoulders are pulled at an angle that looks more painful than it is in actuality.

“Wow,” he manages, a pleased grin on his face.

“You look good, like I said,” Steve says, kissing his forehead. “Very sexy.”

Huh. Two could-be-sexual comments in one evening. Maybe he should add ropes to the list of Steve’s turn-ons? “Thank you,” he says, flexing his toes and squirming, checking for bad-numbness and bad-tingling.

“Sure.” He pockets the phone and stands. “How about we try a stress position?”

“Is this… not a stress position?”

“Not even close.”

“In that case,” he takes in a breath. “Is it… a question? Or. Just something we’re going to do.”

“You know the answer to that. Hang on, I have to do something different with your legs.”

‘Something different’ turns out to be untying said legs, then re-tying them in a way that makes Bucky feel like a frog pre-leap, in that Steve does something which puts most of his weight on his chest, legs bound apart and wide in a modified version of the original hog tie, only this time his dick’s on full display (though the dick in question is enjoying the new predicament, standing at attention; resilient little fucker).

“Nice to see you’re having fun,” Steve teases, followed by the distinctive pressure of what can only be the sole of his sneaker pressing against Bucky’s balls.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Spread your legs wider.”

That’s almost impossible, but Bucky’s an optimist’s optimist—having seen the picture of himself, he believes he might just be able to pull it off. So, he grunts, and though the ropes don’t want to let him do it, he gains a scant few inches, putting increased pressure on his knees and lower back.

“Hold it,” Steve says, as Bucky’s thighs shake, sweat beading on his forehead. “Thirty seconds. Come on, Buck. Hold it. Don’t fucking drop. Don’t do it. I’ll step on your balls if you do…”

That’s enough to keep him hanging on, and he groans, nearly crying from the sheer physical exertion, sure he’s seconds away from failure when Steve says, “stop.”

Letting out a breath, he drops into the cradle of rope that’s waiting to catch him and keep him spread wide. “Shit,” he manages.

“I knew you could do it.”

“You did?”

“Yup. Which tells me I can get more creative next time.”

“You can?”

“Mmm. Like, if I wanted to turn this into real predicament bondage, I’d make you hold that position and tie your balls to your big toes, something like that, so when you relaxed, they’d get yanked.”

“Stuck between a rock. And a hard place?” he offers, panting. Who needs yoga when you’ve got Steve?

“Sure,” he agrees, crouching to grab the balls in question and oh, God, Bucky’s head is spinning and it’s all a bit much while also being exactly enough. “But we’re only covering the basics tonight, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” he agrees, nodding.

With a chuckle, Steve squeezes. “You want to come tonight?”

That feels like one of Steve’s tricks. Bucky nods anyway.

“Okay, sure. You can come. If you can earn it.”

“Earn it?” he squeaks.

“Yup. You’ve got ten minutes to get yourself out of those ropes. If you manage it, I’m going to jerk you off, nice and slow, then you can lie down and relax.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Oh, I haven’t decided that yet, but you can rest assured that it’s gonna be bad.”

“Gee, mister. Can I take the third option?”

“There’s a third option?”

“The one where I choose neither.”

“Cute. Nope. Time’s a wasting, by the way—ten minutes started when I finished talking.”

Damn it. Bucky wriggles. Pulls. Tugs at the impossible knots that bind him. His first instinct—the one he’s most inclined to believe—is that this is stupid and pointless. He wasn’t able to get free when he was rolling around earlier, so how could this be different? He’s stuck. Trapped. Good for nothing except giving Steve a show. His second instinct, however, comes as a reasonable-voice-growing-louder in his head that tells him Steve doesn’t set impossible tasks. Difficult ones, yes, but not impossible. Tasks that push Bucky against the limits of his capabilities, but not ones that trip him and send him sprawling.

There’s a lesson here, somewhere. A lesson like, oh, patience. Or persistence. Or believing in himself.

Ugh, Steve.

Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and thinks things through. Forms a mental picture of himself: this tie is modified from the one in the photograph, but the binding on his arms hasn’t changed, so he starts there. Visualizes where the knots lie, then twists his wrists back and forth against what slight bit of give Steve has allowed, using his still-free fingers to locate one that’s not as secure as the others. With a modicum of effort he’s able to worm his index finger beneath the rope and tug.

The knot gives.

It had taken maybe one minute out of his ten, which is promising, though he wasted time wriggling. Meaning that he is red-faced and panting as he persists. Winded but not worried, because there’s no need to panic, even if it’s frustrating to find that the next knot only leads to another, and another, each loosening offering a bit of give but no true release.

But then, to his great surprise, his arms separate from his legs. The knot he’d just undone had been important, and he yelps in triumph, sucking in a deep breath, ignoring the muscles of his shoulders screaming in protest at the increased blood flow.

This is it, he decides. Success! If his arms are free, all he has to do is untangle himself, roll over, untie his legs, and shove his success in Steve’s face. Simple.

Steve’s hand on his back suspends his next move. “Buck.”

“Steve, don’t, I’m almost—”

“I know,” he says. “But you just hit ten minutes.”

Fuck. “I… but I…”

“You got further than I thought you would, pal.”

“I did?” he says, sounding petulant, but shit. This sucks.

“You did,” he says. “I thought you’d flail around a lot longer, but you figured out the weak knots I left you fast.”

“But I didn’t finish.”

“Is that so bad?”

Bucky frowns. “It is if I don’t get off.”

“That’s fair.”

With a sigh, he rolls onto his side and looks up, nursing a frown. “I guess losing’s not the worst thing ever.” There’s a part of him that wants to see what torment Steve has planned, after all.

“There’s my little masochist. Sit tight while I get your legs free—I need you standing up for the next part.”

Steve starts in on the ropes while Bucky reckons with the notion that while he had not been set an impossible task, he had been set one that would be tough to do in ten minutes. Meaning that despite his confidence in Steve’s guidance, he had indeed set Bucky up for failure.

But also: he’d set him up for success in that Bucky had gotten his arms free and had been a couple minutes away from finishing. Plus, fucking up hadn’t been the end of the world, and he’d accomplished something, even if it wasn’t everything. For someone with a crippling fear of failure, that was kind of empowering.

Well, shit. He knew Steve had been trying to teach him a lesson.

“There,” Steve says, unwinding the last bit of rope. “Wriggle your ankles, get the sensation back into them.”

“Sure,” he grunts, muscles protesting mightily as he stretches himself out, a burning ache of discomfort rolling across every joint. “How stupid did I look, scale of one to ten?”

He means it as a joke, but Steve doesn’t smile, just squints. “Zero.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You looked how I wanted you to look, Buck.”

“Ugh.”

“Hey.” Steve’s fingers grip his chin, giving him a shake. “You looked good. Say it.”

“I uh… looked… good,” he echoes, the tips of his ears going warm.

“Thank you.” He lets go and sits back on his heels. “Are you enjoying this? The rope, that is. Generally.”

“Um, sure,” he says, rolling his ankles. “It’s nice?”

“Elaborate.”

“I like that it’s difficult,” he clarifies after a moment’s consideration. “There aren’t any good options. No matter how I move, something hurts or digs in or shifts, so whatever relief I get is short-lived.”

Steve’s slight smile widens. “Rope’s great for that, yeah. Some people love the conundrum, I guess.”

“That’s a good word for it. Like, when you tied me to the bench before, that was just to keep me from moving. This was different—it was a total experience instead of just a reminder.”

The smile turns into a grin as Steve pushes himself to his feet. “Exactly.”

“Also,” he says, on a roll now, “I like that it takes away any… control I might have?”

Steve’s grin disappears. “So when you’re not tied up, you have control?”

Oh dear, a trap. “Uh. No. I don’t think that’s what I said.”

“But that _is_ what you said, actually,” he presses, and Bucky understands what a spider must feel when it’s trapped beneath a glass.

“Well. Okay. I did say that. But what I _meant_ was—”

“Stand up.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad—”

“Stand up, Bucky.”

Welp. He might not be an actual genius but he’s not a moron either. So he stands, wincing at the pins and needles in his appendages as he faces Steve, aware he’s stepped in shit. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Um. Implying I was in control.”

“Not quite. Go face the wall, put your arms over your head and spread your legs. Make an X.”

Bucky can guess the position Steve wants (thank you, pornography), so he assumes it, dropping his forehead against the black painted wall and wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut.

“Good boy,” Steve says as he moves, hooking his chin over Bucky’s shoulder, lips millimeters away from his ear as he speaks, low and terrifying. “I was going to tie you up again—use that spreader bar you’re so interested in and let you try a balancing act—but now you’re going to take your licks like this. And I’ll tell you right now, Buck, you’d better not move a fucking muscle.”

With that, he steps away, and while Bucky’s desperate to discern what he’s doing, he knows that peeking would be an extremely bad idea.

The answer arrives in short order, the twin floggers reappearing on the scene—Chekov’s corporal punishment—as Steve starts in on his back without warning, criss-crossing his skin with whisper-soft strokes. Within seconds, he has a steady, thrumming rhythm going, wielding his tools with the precision of someone who has spent years honing a craft. At first, the sensation is almost pleasant, a dull kiss of leather on sore muscles, but then, Steve lets fly a painful pop, fireworks exploding across Bucky’s tender back. He grunts, ass clenching as his hips jut forward against empty air. Steve hums, mirroring the hard stroke on the opposite side before taking up the gentler rhythm once more. Only now, those gentle strokes are akin to a sunburn on sensitive skin: chafing, frustrating, itchy, and oh-so-annoying.

He wants to scratch that itch. Can’t. Because Steve told him not to move, and he’s trying to be good. So he pretends that he’s bound with Steve’s words instead of rope, which is just as effective, funnily enough, so…

… oh. That’s why Steve’s pissed. A-plus for Bucky, folks, figuring out the theme of the novel after failing the exam.

Steve stops hitting his back, and Bucky has only milliseconds to wonder why before the flogger swings between his legs instead, wrapping around his cock and balls with enough force that the leather tails kiss his stomach. It’s not awful, but the shock of being hit in a vulnerable spot causes an instinctive reaction, and Bucky moves his left hand to cover himself.

Bad idea: Steve is there in a second, twisting his arm behind his back, leaning in with his full weight and biting into the muscle of Bucky’s shoulder so hard it makes him howl.

“What’d I say about moving, genius?” he growls, jerking his arm higher and oh, Jesus, Steve’s strong, he’s so strong and he could break the bone if he wanted to, but Bucky doesn’t want him to, doesn’t think he would, except that he could, and probably that’s the point.

“I didn’t—ow, fuck, I’m sorry, but…”

“No buts. No excuses. Next time I’ll nail your hand to the wall. Got me?”

Bucky shivers and whines, caught between pure fantasy and harsh reality as he gasps out, “please don’t do that…”

“No?” Steve’s grip tightens on his wrist, the pain a bright spark. “Why shouldn’t I? Because you’re in charge?”

“Shouldn’t…” He drinks in a lungful of air, desperate and yowling, both loving and hating the threat. “Not… shouldn’t. You can but please don’t because I’m sorry and I’m…”

“That’s right. I could. But I won’t. Because I believe in second chances.”

With that, he releases Bucky’s arm, nipping his neck and murmuring a quiet “too much? Still green?” And while Bucky appreciates the check-in after something so intense, he is also _incredibly_ green. Bright, flashing, neon green.

“Green,” he echoes, raising his shaking arm above his head.

“Good boy,” is Steve’s only response before he descends with the flogger once again, merciless as he visits upon Bucky an unforgettable lesson. Each blow—to his back, his thighs, his ass, his balls—reminding him that control isn’t maintained through physical restraints but through the fact that this is Steve’s domain, and Steve is in charge. Steve, who knows what’s best, and what’s safe, and what’s possible. Steve, who sees what he can handle, and how to break him down and build him up and fuck, Bucky can’t catch his breath as he digs his nails into the wall, unable to distinguish individual hits, the flogger a steady fall of fire punctuated with bursts of lightning.

Finally, his happy little pain response kicks in, a cloud of endorphins carrying him away to the lovely, floaty place where he doesn’t have to care. And when, at last, his legs are shaking with the effort of staying in place and he knows he’s seconds away from dropping, Steve is there to catch him, chest pressing to Bucky’s wounded back as he lowers them both to the ground and slides his arms up to cover Bucky’s fingers, which are still clinging to the wall.

“My good boy,” he murmurs, drawing those grasping claws down and gathering Bucky close, which is so good, Bucky decides, cuddling into his embrace, arms and legs caught tight, pinned not like that trapped spider but like something that’s appreciated and needed and oh, fuck, his head is spinning. It’s all he can do to sob out the last of his pain, dramatic heaving replaced with small sniffles.

Steve brushes a hand through his damp, sweaty hair as those sniffles slow, rocking him, steady and sure. “Jesus, you can take so much, Bucky. I know I’ve said it before but… Jesus.”

Bucky shrugs, tamping down a smile, feeling better already as he enjoys his swim in the cozy comfort of subspace. “Eh,” he says, flapping a hand.

Steve snorts. “Would you stop second-guessing the fact that you’re talented? Just say thank you.”

“I’m—” He searches for a reason to be disagreeable, but his fuzzy brain can’t find one. “Thank you.”

“There you go. Let’s get you comfortable.”

Then, there is a couch and a blanket. A pair of Reese’s peanut butter cups in his hands which he gobbles up, grateful for the sugar. His head is in Steve’s lap as he finishes the candy, everything quiet and slow, time stretching as Steve’s long fingers brush through his hair. With the food in him, he can string a coherent thought together, so he turns his head, smiling at Steve and blinking through the haze. “Hey.”

“Hi there. You okay?”

“Mmm.”

“That uh, that got intense,” he says, brow furrowing as if he’s not sure that’s a good thing.

“I know, I was there.”

Steve smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, which stay concerned. “It wasn’t too much?”

“Which part?”

“The uh. The threats, I guess?”

“You’ve made those before,” he points out with a half-yawn.

“Yeah. Not quite to that level.”

“I liked it,” he says.

“You did?”

“Yeah. The threats, when you make them, I realize you won’t do it, but part of me believes that you might. I guess they’re motivational.”

One corner of Steve’s mouth turns up, and he raises a brow. “Motivational, huh?”

“Yeah. But I get that you’re not _actually_ going to uh, what’d you say? Nail my hand to the wall?”

Steve has the good grace to blush, and he shrugs. “That… yeah. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain.”

“I think,” Bucky says, reaching up to touch his cheek. “We can add threatening nonexistent violence to the list of things we’re into that… how’d you put it? Other people would say ‘hey, buddy, that’s kind of fucked up’.”

That gets a genuine smile from Steve, who shakes his head. “I love it when you use things I’ve said against me.”

“Oh, anytime. Also, uh, while we’re talking things over, I wanted to ask about the photographs?”

“Yeah, definitely,” he says, shifting to pull Bucky’s phone from his pocket. “I only took a few—you want to see the rest?”

“Oh, no, not those. The ones in the bathroom.”

“Ah.” Steve smiles, setting the phone on the couch. “I thought you might notice the faux-Keshos.”

“The what?”

Steve runs a finger down his cheek, then his neck, making him shiver. “Hikari Kesho. He’s this incredible photographer who does a lot of Shibari shoots. The bathroom prints are knock-off versions of his stuff, shot by some try-hard amateur.”

“Wow. Tell me what you really think, Steve.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Well, I liked them.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I found them very… inspirational.”

Steve smiles, pressing a finger against the tip of his nose. “Huh. You might as well know that I’m the amateur.”

“You…” Bucky blinks. “Wait, you took those?”

“Correct. And now they adorn the shitter. Appropriately.”

“They’re good!”

He waves a hand. “What was your question about them?”

“Hold on, hypocrite. You said I needed to stop being self-deprecating.”

“I did not. I said you need to stop second-guessing being a talented little masochist.”

“That’s not—”

“I’ll ask again,” he interrupts. “What was your question?”

Sensing a war he won’t win, Bucky sighs and lets the matter drop. “How long before I can do stuff like that?”

Steve barks out a laugh. “I knew it. You’re a fucking rope bunny.”

Oh. Ew. “A what?”

“Yeah, how’s that for a kinky colloquialism?”

“Uh, I hate it?”

“Can’t help being what you are, little rabbit.”

“Absolutely not. Can’t I be like… a rope uh, leopard? Grizzly bear? Lion?”

That gets another guffaw from Steve. “Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wouldn’t want to play with a lion. I prefer a nice, submissive little bunny.”

“Steve.”

Steve only grins, tapping his chin in consideration. “Could be you’re a rope… hmm. Kitten?”

“ _Steve_.”

“I don’t know! I just know you’re not a lion.”

“Well, okay, that’s fair. But also, no on the bunny thing. Hard pass, hard limit.”

Steve laughs, rolling his eyes. “Of all the hard limits you could have, that’s your line?”

“Your kink is not my kink, and that’s okay, Steve. Also, you didn’t answer the question.”

“Smartass. We’ll do that stuff, eventually.”

“How long is eventually?”

“It’s as long as I say. But the stronger you get, the sooner we can raise the stakes. You could do some of those ties now—plenty of people in worse shape than you can handle them—but I’m more interested in endurance than I am in ability. Get me?”

“You want to keep me up there for a while.”

“Exactly. And that requires stamina.”

“Got it.” There’s no hiding the silly grin spreading across his face. “Will you take more pictures when we do that? Not with my phone, though. Real photos.”

“I…” he hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, I could bring my camera, if you wanted.”

“I could pay you for them. To have prints made, or whatever.”

Steve’s expression is unreadable as he looks away. “Ah… you don’t have to do that.”

“They’re art,” he says. “You should pay for art.” 

“They’re not…” He harrumphs. “Actually. If you let me take the pictures, we could do a trade for the prints.”

Again with the trades. There’s not a person this side of 1880 who spends more time dickering than Steve. “What kind of trade?”

“So. Okay.” He blows out a breath. “The photography’s a hobby, and I’m not very good at it, but I paint, too, on the side, and I’m better at that, I think? Not great, but better. So, I could uh…” Oh, fuck, he’s blushing.

“You want to paint me?”

“I want to use the pictures as a reference. But not if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“Oh.”

“Why don’t you just paint me live?”

Steve smiles, meeting his eyes. “Do you know how long that would take?”

Bucky, a plebe, does not. “Uh. A while?”

“A long while,” he agrees. “Even for someone with amazing stamina. But…” He squints, worrying his lip between his teeth. “Sketching you… we could do that.”

He says ‘we’ like they’re a team. Bucky hopes that’s true. “That’d be cool.”

“Very cool, bunny.”

“Hard limit, dick.”

“I beg your forgiveness, scary lion,” he grins. “Why don’t you go get dressed?”

Bucky nods, standing and stretching his arms over his head, rocking from side to side. “I’m going to get so fucking flexible.”

“Let’s hope so,” Steve says, then pokes him in the navel, making him giggle. Because he is a very cool, dignified person. “How many times should I let you come before next session?”

Caught by surprise, he can only blink. “Um.”

“Two seconds, or it’s zero.”

“Four!”

“Four?” Steve grins. “Jesus, that’s so miserly! I figured you’d start at forty and give me something to work with.”

“I didn’t know forty was an option!” he protests, crossing into the playroom, Steve at his heels.

“I never gave an upper limit.”

“Okay, then I would like to come forty times between now and next session, Steve.”

“How about twice?”

Bucky splutters, reaching for his underwear. “Are you… that’s not even…”

“Is that your counter offer, or are you going to keep whining?”

“Thirty-nine,” he mutters, getting his shorts settled. “You miser.”

“Three.”

“Steve!”

“What?” He says, laughing now, poster boy smile illuminating every corner of the room with its self-satisfied wattage. “You’re terrible at negotiating.”

“You’re terrible at good faith offers!” he counters over the sound of Steve’s laughter. “Twelve?”

“Eh. Seven.”

Bucky knows a win when he hears one. “Deal!”

“Wow. I can’t believe you accepted without hearing the terms and conditions.”

Motherfucking Steve. Bucky scowls and grabs his jeans. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Steve shrugs, advancing until he has Bucky backed up against the wall, brushing the lightest of kisses against his lips before grinding their foreheads together. “Did you want _fair,_ Bucky? Is that why you come here? For fairness, and justice, and kindness, and compassion?”

“Nnn…” he complains, tilting his head up for another kiss, only to have Steve pull back and leave him pouting like a six-year-old with a scraped knee.

“Nnn, what?”

“Nnn-o, Steve, that’s not why I come here.”

“Then why _do_ you come here?”

“Because I like it when you’re not fair.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I like it when you’re in charge.”

Steve raises a fist, rapping his knuckles against the side of Bucky’s head to punctuate his point. “You’re goddamn right, genius.”

Bucky knocks his skull against that raised hand with deliberate intent, a billy goat not-so-gruff, then takes a second chance at stealing a kiss. This time, he’s successful, and he pecks Steve once before pulling away. “So, I get seven?”

“Yes. Twice daily for the next two days, three time on the third, and nothing after that.”

“But!”

“Oh, and you have to send me photographic evidence every time.”

With a grumble, he hitches up his jeans. “What do you even do with those pictures?” He’s not stupid—it’s most likely a fetish—but he still can’t figure out what Steve wants with a bunch of not-even dick picks.

“I print them out and keep them in a folder called ‘How to Blackmail Bucky’.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” he laughs. “Got a case file to send your mother.”

His slight Brooklyn accent pops hard on the last couple words, and Bucky can’t help smiling, though he’s trying to frown. “My face isn’t even in them.”

“Eh,” Steve shrugs, waggling his fingers in the air. “Technicality.”

“Seriously, what do you do with them?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Um.” Bucky considers the question, because he gets the sense Steve will tell him if he presses. However, if the answer is ‘instant deletion’ or ‘doesn’t even look’ then he’d rather stay in the dark. “I guess not.”

“Alright,” Steve shrugs, then glances at his wrist. “You’d better get hopping, little bun… lion.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Why?”

“Someone else has this room booked at ten.”

“Oh.” He wonders if that ‘someone’ is Steve, because he hasn’t offered to walk Bucky out. But that sort of thinking leads to strange, anxiety-induced places, so he doesn’t let the thought linger. “Got it. I’ll text you tomorrow?”

“Please do. And don’t forget your list for next time.”

* * *

Two weeks later, Bucky turns up at the dungeon holding a handwritten list of ten fussed-over fetishes. Steve takes it, gives him a kiss on the nose, and upends him over his knee.

Bucky assumes he adds the list to the blackmail file.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who's still subscribed to this - your comments and reactions are treasures and I read and relish every one, even if I'm not always able to respond. Speaking of responses, remember when I said it wouldn't take me six months to post the next installment? Insert 'oops' gif here. Life, am I right? Between my actual job, working on Professional Smut, and the mild depressive fugue that can hang over any given day, time moves pretty fast (if you don't stop and look around once...thanks, Ferris). Anyway, I hope this was worth the wait, or at least scratched the itch. I won't make any more promises I can't keep, but I will say that this series isn't done so long as I still enjoy writing it, and I do.
> 
> Thanks as always to Kate for the beta! 
> 
> **For those who skipped to the end from the top notes:** Steve and Bucky discuss how Bucky feels about watersports (curious yet hesitant), while reaffirming that neither are into scat or rainbow play. Steve also discusses having a medical fetish. I'm not opposed to writing either, though if I do, they'll be tagged appropriately. For those who are into that sort of thing. Or not into - that's a tasty kink tomato, baby.


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